When I finally go deaf, my drum hide
will catch its last buzz,

then I, like a spider, will wrap the sound
and spin it on loop in my record-player head,

to soothe me as my
cochlear spirals sputter,
my canal hairs split,

and my precious membrane tears like a web.
When my drum skin finally shreds,

it will no longer sing out, won’t be pounded slapped or
galloped upon by earth’s rhythms, but

I will make my organs into a drum-set, I will still
feel the heel-toe of hands on my inner
congas, Oye como va, ba ba

mi ritmo. Listen, when the creature curled inside my drum
shell finally dies, I hope it crumbles into sand

so I can shake my new maraca
head, No, the music does not
end.